


Ink Blots

by MaskoftheRay



Series: The Things That I Do For You [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Being a Superhero Isn't Easy, Bittersweet, Bruce spills ink- literally, Clark Kent Tries, Clark Kent is a good boyfriend, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Exhausted Bruce Wayne, Emotionally Repressed Bruce Wayne, Hugs, M/M, Off-screen Minor Character Death, Potentially crack-like situaion treated seriously, Sad Bruce Wayne, Soft Bruce Wayne, Soft Clark Kent, bad day, mentioned minor character death, the resulting stain however is both literal AND metaphorical, weariness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23540902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Bruce accidentally gets ink on himself, and is overly upset by it. Clark notices.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth (mentioned), Bruce Wayne & The Reality of Being Batman, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: The Things That I Do For You [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693975
Comments: 12
Kudos: 188





	Ink Blots

**Author's Note:**

> “ **Rorschach test** , also called **Rorschach inkblot test** , projective method of psychological testing in which a person is asked to describe what he or she sees in 10 inkblots, of which some are black or gray and others have patches of colour.”  
> — “Rorschach test,” _Encyclopædia Britannica_

He looks down. There’s a large black void of ink spreading out from the bottom of his dress shirt’s— his _white_ dress shirt’s— breast pocket. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed it before, and now the shirt is ruined. Alfred will have his head. “Goddamn it!”

The ink, evidently, has been leaking for a while, as some of its finer black tendrils have inched toward the garment’s next button. To a more creative (or morbid) eye, it almost looks like he’s been stabbed. _Some might argue that black blood matches the color of my heart_ , Bruce thinks with grim amusement. He sighs, rubs at his tired eyes, and stands to take care of the mess.

Of course, this requires going upstairs, as he doesn’t have a fresh shirt to change into in his study. This means that he has to walk through the manor like this, or go shirtless. But one thing he _can_ do right now is to stop the problem from becoming worse. Carefully, he removes the defective pen from his pocket, and scowls as ink continues to leak from the writing utensil onto his hand. He holds his other hand underneath the pen, lest any black spot touch the carpet, and soon both his hands are dirtied.

Disgustedly, Bruce drops the broken, leaking pen into the trash and, without thinking, wipes his hands on his pants.

For a moment, he freezes, dirty hands still touching his pants. _Of course_. _Ruined another thing by being thoughtless_. Bruce sighs, lifts his sullied hands from his ruined pants, and strides upstairs to his bedroom. Hopefully he can get there without making more of a mess.

**°°°**

Bruce scrubs and scrubs, but it seems that what ink there is left from his little mishap is the persistent sort. _Stains aren’t **meant** to come out_, he reminds himself sarcastically. _That’s why they’re annoying— permanence_.

After drying his hands again, Bruce studies them. There is still a faint delineation marking where he’d grasped the ruined pen. It is subtle, but _he’ll_ still know the stain is there. And he’s sure that, just under his chest, there is a similar marking, far darker, from the larger ink spill.

Suddenly his little mishap isn’t just annoying— it’s **infuriating**.

Bruce feel his nails bite into his palms, and huffs. He grabs his towel from its place on the back of the bathroom door, strips— folding his shirt in a way that the ink stain is not visible— and turns on the shower so that the water is steaming hot. Hopefully it will help to cleanse his bad mood (if not also the stains from his body).

**°°°**

“Hey, Bruce! You in there?” Clark’s slightly muffled voice jolts Bruce from his absent pondering of the white shower tiles. He blinks. Then the meaning of his boyfriend’s words becomes clear.

“Yes, Clark. I’ll be out soon.” _Where else would I be?_ He loves the other man, but sometimes Clark’s aspirations towards normalcy— such as pretending that he doesn’t know that it’s _Bruce_ in the shower— are grating. He frowns softly, but lets the expression slide from his face like the hot water he stands under. Bruce shuts off the shower and towels off. _The stain is still there_. He sighs, wraps the towel firmly around his waist, and strides out the bathroom door in a billow of steam.

“Hey there,” Clark greets warmly. He sets his briefcase down beside his bedside table, removes his tie, jacket, and then blinks. He cocks his head slightly, and looks a bit puzzled. Bruce tenses. Clark walks forward until he’s only a few inches away from Bruce. He reaches a hand out and gently ghosts it over the more prevalent stain on Bruce’s chest. “Did you have a bad fight?” he asks, sounding uncertain; Clark often is, about the various small mortal hurts which Batman frequently endures.

“Bruce?”

He stills. A drop of water runs down his back. Another down his face, trailing from his wet hair. “No. Just an ink stain— I had a pen in my pocket, and it broke.” He swallows. _Have a bad fight? Bruce? Did you?_ Clark’s words replay themselves in his head mockingly, no matter how he tries to scrub them out. They’re like ink— no, the events of two nights prior are.

A warm touch to his chin brings Bruce back to the present.

“Everything okay?” Clark asks.

His throat aches when he swallows. “Yeah. Just annoyed that I ruined my shirt. Alfred will be mad.”

Clark arches an eyebrow. “You sure it can’t be saved?” Bruce never has been good at doing laundry.

“No. Believe me, I know when something is ruined—” Bruce shuts up. _I’ve said too much_.

His boyfriend’s blue eyes in that moment are far too observant. “I’ll take a look anyway.”

Bruce grimaces. “Don’t waste your time.” _It’s pointless_. _There’s no getting a stain like that out_. He goes to change.

**°°°**

“I _think_ this can be saved,” Clark calls.

Bruce stiffens momentarily. He finishes pulling his arm through its sleeve. He hears Clark’s light footsteps as he walks out of the bathroom, probably with the stained shirt in hand. “Still pointless— Bruce Wayne can never wear that shirt again.” At this point, Clark’s standing right behind him.

“What about you? What about just Bruce?”

“ _I_ don’t wear dress shirts, Clark. Drop it.”

Without thinking, he spins around. At his harsher-than-intended words, Clark closes his mouth. They’re both silent.

“What’s this really about, B?”

He sighs. “Nothing, Clark. It’s just a stain.”

Clark’s lack of response is telling. Bruce lets it be. _Not the first failure that I’ve had. Nor will it be the last._ Doesn’t stop the bad nights from hurting, though. Even after all the time he’s been doing this. No, the little mistakes hurt almost _more_ now. Because he knows that they’re the most preventable.

“Bruce.”

He blinks. “I’m fine, Clark. Really.” _Her name was Julia_. _Twelve years old. Died during the break-in. Shot_. _I was across town in the East End, waiting for someone to need my help_.

Suddenly, he’s wrapped in Clark’s arms. His boyfriend says nothing, just holds Bruce, and rocks them back and forth a little. Bruce buries his face in Clark’s shoulder, inhales his familiar scent. He stays quiet, and so does Clark. At this point, the other man knows that words can’t always help, that sometimes Bruce just needs silent affirmation, something to show him that it’ll all be okay. Bruce allows himself to be, a little, soothed by the other man’s actions.

Maybe he’ll tell Clark about it later. _Not like set-in stains can be spread to others, after all_.


End file.
